From Darkness Comes Light
by shestewa
Summary: Ethriel and Belarion are Sin'dorei priests studying under the enigmatic Master Kaelwyn. They struggle to come to terms with the harsh reality of faction war, and must make do with the powers and resources at their disposal in a violent and mysterious world. Together, they must make that leap, and hope they but survive.
1. First Light

_A/N: This story will take place in the Era of MoP. The last time I played was in fact the end of WoD, so some of the newer changes and storylines are alien to me. It's just for a bit of fun, and any changes/similarities that are or are or are not represented from current content are purely coincidental. Also, I own nothing, not even the computer that I type this on, so no suing plz._

If you enjoy please press all the buttons and comment or whatever to give me some encouragement :)

* * *

Ethriel Dawnstar was going to die, and it was all because of his own idiocy. He sprinted as fast as his screaming legs would carry him through the dense forest, desperately leaping over fallen trees and dodging errant branches. While he barely dared to risk a glance behind him - lest he fall, and then he would die immediately - he could hear the angry buzzing of a swarm of mana wyrms in pursuit. All he'd wanted was a little pick-me-up after his bloodthistle ran out. There was nothing wrong with wanting a little magical morsel; everybody did it. In perfect hindsight, he reflected that of course he should have known better. He should have known better than to let himself become powerless over his urges, and known better than to pick the target that he did. At the time, they'd seemed convenient, but in his mindless desire, he had forgotten that these were not the tame creatures he often picked off on Sunstrider Isle. Now _those_ would completely ignore you, even if you sucked on every last one. Out here he hadn't even attempted that – just a tiny mana tap from old and gnarled looking one. He could argue that he was doing them a favour by removing it from their midst. They didn't seem to think so, however, as they had instantly turned furiously on him. It was stupid. He was stupid, and he was going to die because of it.

Their droning suddenly grew impossibly loud; in his mind's eye, it sounded like bees the size of dragonhawks. He managed to steal a quick glimpse while he deftly swung a corner around a stump. They were extremely close, _Oh Light_. There was nothing he could conceivably do about it now. Between ragged breaths, he let out an anguished snarl at the irony. It was ironic: the very creatures he had spent most of his life siphoning and draining of magic, would now consume _him_. All of him, until he was a dusty, rotting corpse out here in the middle of nowhere for nobody to find him. Ethriel wasn't even sure if anyone knew he was out here. Generally, that was ideal when you were running away from your responsibilities like any old adolescent, but now he kind of wished he'd left some clues as to where he headed back home. Master Kaelwyn would have understood and come for him, or so he hoped. He laughed humourlessly - what a fate to befall a Sin'dorei!

 _No, that is unacceptable._ It was the dark corner of his mind that spoke to him: the Ethriel Dawnstar that he used to be. The Ethriel Dawnstar from before the scourge invasion, when he had lost all his memories. It fought the hopeless resignation. It wasn't just not seemly for one of the Sin'dorei to die that way; he must survive at all costs. There was an instantaneous boost of confidence and vigour. On the back of his tongue, he could almost taste the determination of someone he had forgotten. All was not lost: there was still hope.

For what felt like the hundredth time, he slowed, all too aware of the closing gap, to grasp mentally for some magic. Instantly, the subtle warmth of light washed over him, spreading to every inch of his body. He fought the urge to bask in its radiance - there was no time for that just now. With a single-minded purpose, he gathered the sum of all his fear and projected it into a psychic scream all around. Another glance revealed his pyrrhic victory: only a handful of the wyrms veered off in terror, the rest were immune by now. _Oh Light_.

Ethriel bolted once more through the treacherous twists and turns of the trail. It took only a few seconds distraction for the worst to happen - he tripped on a fallen log and fell face-first into the mossy ground. He winced as a sharp twig left a scrape on his pointed ear, the warm trickling of blood ran down the side of his face. In a last ditch effort, he seized as much light of the remaining light as he could from around him, and deftly cast one of the few spells he knew well.

 _"IMPERIUM AEGIS!"_

He screamed the words of power with as much effort as he could, feeling the shiver of holy magic ripple through him. There was a familiar tug in his chest as his soul blossomed to meet the command, and shield his body. At the time, he was sure it was the most potent he'd ever cast, but it weakened significantly, even as he flipped himself around to face the assailants. His heart sank at the realisation it wouldn't buy him much time at all. Through the opaque barrier, he looked on in horror as the eel-like, luminous bodies threw themselves against it. Each impact diminished the barrier noticeably. As the final threads dissipated, leaving him open to death, he closed his eyes, and waited for the end. _Oh, Light._

 _"IMPERIUM AEGIS!"_

He felt more than heard the repeated cast, and opened his eyes in shock. Had he imagined it? It certainly hadn't been his voice. A few paces down the path, another elf stood confidently, with a great number of the creatures turning their attentions to him. He looked around the same age, but then again, amongst the more long-lived elves, appearance was deceiving. His skin was unusually pale, and his hair as black as midnight. The glowing eyes that peered out from under the billowing silk hood were not the familiar fel green, nor the pale white of a dirt-elf, but a deep violet. From the cut, and colour of his robes, it was clear he was a fellow priest, though with such an ambiguous racial appearance, of which elven race he was unsure. It occurred to him that in this situation, Wretched could not be choosers. With a raised palm, it called the light once more. _"SANCTUS IGNIS!"_

Ethriel knew the energy from the words, but found himself unsure of their meaning. As if in answer, a vast pillar of flames shot down from the sky. Holy fire - one of the most powerful and destructive forms of sacred magic. He scrambled desperately backwards, hoping to avoid the coming devastation, but it was too fast. As they fell around him, he recoiled and expected to watch in horror as the heat sloughed the flesh from his bones. Instead, the spell glanced around the shield, leaving him unharmed. The cloud of mana wyrms were mostly vaporised, alongside a wide circle of forest. He heard a few casts of _"_ _Percutite!"_ to finish of stragglers, and as rapidly as it had begun, it ended.

Through the smoke and burning remains of vegetation, his saviour strode forward and extended a helping hand. At Ethriel's moment of hesitation, he only smiled. "Anu belore dela'na, my friend." Perfect Thalassian.

He breathed a sigh of relief and accepted the palm, but the moment their skin met, a great jolt of magic surged painfully through their arms. It at once felt like fire and ice as it shot through flesh. Ethriel gave a surprised yelp and let go, falling back to the earth with a painful bump.

"What did you do?" Ethriel demanded, clutching the limb to his chest.

"I did nothing." The stranger replied uncertainly, and examined his own hand, then let out a cry of his own. "Ahh! Look!"

They both peered at the golden skin, now marred with a white circle that shone like a scar where they had touched. Tentatively, Ethriel unfolded his own hand which to his dismay displayed a matching blemish.

"What is it?" He remarked.

"I have no idea..."

The dark haired elf looked vacantly at the matching marks. For a moment, his lips moved as if to speak, but he then bit his cheek as if to silence himself. Instead, he proferred his other arm. "I don't want it to happen again."

"I doubt it will." _Oh I bet you know it won't_ , Ethriel thought sourly. There was a hint of knowing in the priest's tone; he'd have to wrangle what it was out of him.

"Well, to be sure." He struggled to his feet, hissing as the defaced skin prickled sensitively against everything. Finally, when he had managed to regain some modicum of composure, he met those strange violet eyes. "May I know the name of my rescuer?"

"Of course." The priest bowed unusually deeply, and powerful muscles rippled beneath the robe's fabric; it was clear he was not only a scholar, but a battle priest. "My name is Belarion." As he spoke, the purple glow flashed enigmatically.

"My thanks to you, Belarion." He stumbled through the words in embarrassment as the whole situation finally clicked in his mind. He would have died without this assistance. All of it was excruciatingly embarrassing. He tried in vain to regain some confidence, regardless of his scarlet cheeks. He would act the part of wandering adventurer – they got into scrapes all the time. "I am in your debt, and may grant you a boon, though for now I must continue on my quest."

Belarion eyed him with some amusement. "I think that for now, your quest is over - I shall escort you back to Sunstrider isle."

Ethriel's eyes opened wider - who was he to be deciding such for him? Besides, he couldn't turn back now. "That will not be necessary - I have business in Fairbreeze Village to attend to."

They paused at the awkward conflict, but when Belarion spoke, it was with authority. "It is clear from what has transpired, that in terms of the enclave, I am your superior." Ethriel narrowed his eyes suspiciously: this sounded rehearsed. "I must therefore insist that we return to safety, for clearly you are not yet capable of completing this... quest... of yours in one piece." Glints of knowing showed in his eyes. Those strange, enchanting eyes felt almost like they saw into his soul. "I am not asking when I say I will accompany you back to the Academy, to Master Kaelwyn."

Damnit! "He sent you." It all clicked in his mind. Everything about this was simply too convenient. "He sent you to find me, didn't he?"

The laugh Belarion let out echoed clearly throughout the newly burned clearing. "You are correct, Ethriel Dawnstar." Without any more words to the shocked look, he turned and set off down the long back to Silvermoon. Reluctantly, Ethriel dusted some of the charred leaves from his apprentice robe, and followed morosely.

"Yes, sir."

"Belarion will do."

"Yes, Belarion."

* * *

"Excellent." Master Kaelwyn muttered to himself. "Just as I had hoped."

He had known, of course that the disenchanted student would attempt to run. Indeed he had also known to where, and who to send after him. He was Master Kaelwyn, Honoured Elder of the Clave: he knew everything. Or rather, he cultivated the image of such. With an expert flick of his wrist, the crystal scrying orb went blank, images of the two students vanishing. Despite his aching bones, he picked the heavy ball up and shuffled across the room to stow it away. His body ached and groaned with every movement today – he wasn't as young as he used to be. When had he gotten so old? Hazy memories of youth from centuries past lingered on the edge of his mind. He knew a moment's jealousy for the two elflings, but quickly pushed it aside. Envy was a lowly emotion. Besides, feelings were no longer his own – he owed them to his apprentices. He owed them his years of experience and wisdom. Every ounce of his being left must go to them, even if they were not yet ready.

Determinedly, he sat back at his desk and wrung his aching hands before picking up his quill. It was an old and simple one, but well made - much like most of the things he owned. It was so old indeed that the feather still bore the blue of when they had called themselves the High elves. He let himself chortle gently – such an apt name. They had all been high on the Sunwell back then. Around his chamber, a few objects accented the same hue. Unlike many of the Archmages he knew, Kaelwyn valued living simply. In fact, his chamber was sparsely decorated, even to his own standards. Often, his peers would visit and glance distastefully at the antiquated Quel'dorei memorabilia, and suggest some modern improvements. Sometimes, they even tried to implement them without permission. He rejected such ideas on principle. His personal space was just that – personal. There was no need for the opulent luxuries and conspicuous spending others seemed to value. The room was clean and minimal, just as he liked it; there was no time for useless trinkets in his ever shortening life.

Time. He was running out of time. One quick glance out of his window showed the glorious sun slowly falling on the horizon. Better begin while he could keep his eyes open. With practiced dexterity despite the pain, he dipped the quill and continued writing his blasphemous scrolls. He would have to ensure that the privacy enchantments were renewed upon the parchment from now on, lest unwanted eyes find them.


	2. First Light 02

Ethriel was in two minds about the timely rescue: on the one hand he was glad to be alive, but on the other there was no way that any of this could have gone worse. He considered the long stream of bad decisions he'd made as he trudged along the increasingly wild path and kicked the scattered small stones in frustration. It earned him a questioning look from Belarion ahead as they skittered past. "Are you okay?"

He simply pulled a childish face in response. That was after all, what this whole endeavour looked to be by now. Childish. Not only had he been so predictable that Kaelwyn had been able to send someone after him, but he was so incompetent that he couldn't even run away properly. It was shameful and embarrassing, not to mention the insane level of criticism he'd get for it back at the Academy. Not just from the masters of course – from his peers. Yes, he could see it now, in one of their regular "progress" meetings. In an open-air pavilion, they would be in a circle discussing what they could do "for the good of the Sin'dorei" and denouncing all that did not aim for that goal.

While he had run mostly from the burdens of responsibility shoved unceremoniously upon him constantly, it would still be viewed negatively by Blood Elf society as a whole. It would have been different if he were a young adventurer – people went out without formal training and killed themselves stupidly within weeks all the time. Eversong Woods was littered with corpses of wayward questers, of which he had almost become one. He was held to a different standard though with his formal training and status: it was ungrateful to the state to shun that. In the current climate, that effectively meant unforgivable. Perhaps he'd even be branded as a Blue, light forbid.

In the sky, the sun was slowly dipping towards the horizon, with only a handful of hours left before nightfall. A few ominous thunderclouds were coalescing in the eastern sky, and he could only hope that they reached an inn before they were forced to stop by torrential spring storms. Not that there were any other seasons in Quel'thalas. The Great Springtime Enchantment milennia ago had frozen it in flowery lively joy ad nauseam. One of the greatest feats of their people, that was the focus of a lot of study itself: the type and form of the magic was long lost to their people. Hopelessly he peered at the shape of the land obscured by the golden canopy, hoping to discern where exactly they were. Other than the ocean in the distance, he saw but a few lonely dragonhawks floating on the updrafts. It betrayed nothing. After much argument, Belarion had insisted they go this way, citing some sort of alleged shortcut. So far, as far as Ethriel could tell they'd been traipsing around fairly mountainous terrain without actually making much progress towards Sunstrider at all.

"I still think we should find our way back to the main road." He began again. They'd had this disagreement about a dozen times to no avail. It was no good either pointing out that he _grew up_ in the forest, as while he got flashes of instinct, the recollection was lost to him. While he could easily bluff, those amaranthine eyes seemed almost to read his mind.

"Mr. Dawnstar, you are perhaps the most stubborn person I have ever met." Belarion stopped and turned to him with a rogue smirk, leaning casually against a tree trunk. Ethriel felt an involuntary blush rise to his cheeks and scowled. He was making fun of him, again. It was bad enough that his incompetency was highlighted by the mana wyrm incident, he did not particularly enjoy having it shoved in his face continually. Several times now, the dark-haired priest had turned just to make him uncomfortable in that enigmatic stare. Saying nothing, Belarion surveyed the landscape critically.

"We're lost, aren't we?" It was blunt.

"Of course not. I'm just trying to work out where we are." Belarion replied, and lifted a hand to his brow to block the sunlight. "Though we're not going to make it to an inn tonight, I'm afraid."

"You don't know where we are, and we're nowhere near civilisation. That makes us lost."

"We are not!" He raised a finger to point west at the pinkening sky. "That way is Sunsail Anchorage. We'll reach it tomorrow morning."

"SUNSAIL ANCHORAGE?" Ethriel roared suddenly, snapping. The blush in his face transformed into scarlet rage. "But we haven't moved North at all then! This is some sort of a _wild treant chase_! There's not even any towns along the Sea Path towards Sunstrider there - this is the worst!"

Exasperated, he put his hands on his hips, oblivious as to how ridiculous it looked. This was utterly ridiculous! Sure, the man had saved him from death, but he would have been much better off overall alone. They had made no progress towards this alleged safety at all. Belarion had the audacity to press the tips of his fingers to his temples and mutter to himself through the tirade. "Oh so YOU'RE the one losing patience with ME?" Is that how it is? This is outrageous! I am grateful for your assistance before but this is just not good enough!"

"Oh light, give me strength." Belarion muttered. Ethriel's face created a previously unknown shade of red.

"Light give _me_ strength! There isn't even a Tallstrider roost or dragonhawk master there! Do you just expect us to trundle along the coast and die of the chills from the rain the rest of our trip? Before we get anywhere close to back?!"

The silence between them blossomed immensely, so that when Belarion spoke evenly and clearly, it was particularly poignant. "Anchorage."

"I know what it's called!" He raged.

"Do you know why it's called that?"

"Well _obviously_. It's a harbour."

"Exactly." The pieces suddenly clicked and he felt dizzy from the surge of regret. A ship. They would take a ship from Sunsail Anchorage to Sunstrider Isle. One sailed every other day – it was probably how Belarion had gotten to him so quickly in the first place. Graciously, there was no riposte to his outburst, but a deferential nod in the direction of the sea.

"Well I don't have enough gold for passage." Ethriel tried to give relevance to his spiel, but instinctively knew it was useless. Master Kaelwyn was shrewd – he'd probably booked the passage here for Belarion and back for them both personally. He wouldn't need to pay a copper, though with a little pat to his purse, he probably couldn't have even afforded that.

Belarion gave him a sympathetic look from down the path that knew all. Ethriels suspicions of mental violation were all but proven when he then spoke. "Don't worry about it so much. Do you think you're the first young Sin'dorei to try to run?"

"It's wasteful, and unpatriotic." Ethriel recited, though he wasn't sure if he truly believed it. "It is my duty to the people to respect my responsibilities to them."

"Ana'ralah belore." Belarion said in a mocking tone. "Justice for our people... I sometimes wonder where the justice is for the actual people."

Ethriel was absolutely shocked, and stopped to gape in disbelief. "That's heresy."

"That's treason actually." He corrected amiably.

"If anyone heard you speak like that-"

"Then I'd repeat it to them just to ensure they heard correctly."

Ethriel's lips moved, but no sound came out. It was forbidden to speak that way. Not only was it socially unacceptable – anyone who did quickly went the way of the exiled High Elves – but depending on severity, such counterrevolutionary ideas were punishable by death. The Sin'dorei government had the best interests of their continued culture at heart, and it was not their place to question it. Every ounce of effort must be directed towards clarity of purpose: the purpose of rebuilding their reputation on Azeroth, "Higher than Teldrassil itself!" Their distant cousins' prosperity was a particular sore point and focus for competition. He found himself gripped by a strange combination of terror and admiration as he looked on at Belarion trundling carefully down the path ahead of him. To voice his discontent so openly, he was either in a position of great power with little to fear, or stupid and reckless. He imagined it was the latter. Either way, he found himself wanting to know more.

"What's your background?" Ethriel questioned, trying to make it sound as innocuous as possible. In centuries past such a question would have been considered quite rude, but many things about their culture seemed to be changing rapidly. In a world where they'd lost most, the Sin'dorei seemed to cling to their defining social hierarchy. This new system told not only of social status, but of the crucial factor in modern society: adherence and loyalty to the Blood Elf cause. It was a common question, and everyone who was respectable had their equally common answer rehearsed. That didn't stop it being a difficult one.

"Fel Green." Ethriel couldn't hide the visible cringe. It was one step away from outcast, the "Blue" Quel'dorei loyalists and class enemies. Any family without full devotion to the movement were suspect. Belarion looked suitably awkward as he explained further. "My father was a Magister in the Old Aristocracy and served under Kael'thas."

Regardless of previous transgressions, it told him that his family was one of power, much in contrast to his own. "And since... are they?"

Belarion sighed, but kept his eyes fixated on his wandering boots as he replied. "My father - we haven't seen him in many summers."

Ethriel pushed a pang of jealousy to the back of his mind. "Go on..."

"During the invasion we were on our estate. Many serving staff died in defense, but my family survived. My mother has since become obsessed with proving our loyalty."

It was a familiar story, the disgraced aristocrats, throwing their entire fortunes into showing the Sin'dorei their devotion to the cause. Children forced into training, and pressured to uphold or recreate the family legacy. "That must suck." Ethriel said softly, though it was little comfort.

"It does, yeah. How about you?"

His heart started beating quickly in his chest, and his breathing became ragged. No, he wouldn't panic, not here and not now. It took huge effort to smooth himself out and stop his voice from breaking. "Forest green." He spoke with a joviality that he didn't feel.

Belarion's head straightened up. "Well that's not so bad."

"They were rangers in Tranquilien."

Belarion was silent for a few moments, letting the implication set in, reflecting on the nerve he'd struck. "I'm sorry."

"Thank you, but it changes nothing." The venom in his own voice surprised him. It was common knowledge that most families from the area had been slaughtered and most resurrected as undead in the invasion. For him, the trauma had been so great that before waking up in the field hospital, he remembered nothing of his life. Sure, he knew that he had once had three sisters and parents, but all memory of them was gone. So he found it strange that so much feeling could come from the reminder. "I apologise, Belarion."

"No need." It was matter of factly, but the guilt was obvious in his tone. "Are they still...?"

"I don't know. I can't remember them."

Belarion momentarily stopped walking to give him a sympathetic look. "I can't even imagine..."

"As I said, thank you. I'd rather not discuss it further." He tried to push some imperious confidence into the words, but failed miserably.

They walked in contemplative silence for a while as the sky slowly turned darker. In the west, the evening star suddenly flared into existence on the pink horizon, burning with the anguish of their people. Each stopped for a moment to admire it, until Belarion spoke.

"It's getting colder. We should try to reach that clearing down there." He pointed at the small break in the treeline down the hill. Ethriel didn't reply, but he had no rebuttal to the reasoning. Later, as the first real stars began to show, they set themselves up to make camp under a small outcropping of mossy rocks. It could barely be called a cave, with just enough shelter from the incoming rain for two if they huddled closely. The ground here was covered in the typical Eversong golden leaves and tangles of weeds. Belarion eyed it distastefully. "Move back."

Ethriel retreated a few strides. "Why?"

" _Sanctus novus."_ Belarion commanded. It was a common utility spell that he himself hadn't mastered yet, but he'd never seen it used for this before. A flash temporarily lit up the twilight forest, and a shockwave of light rushed out from the priest, clearing the space of all vegetation, leaving the hard earth beneath. At the edge of its range, a few small animals went scurrying off from their hidden dens, but otherwise it bore no resemblance to the devastation of the holy fire he'd wielded earlier.

"Useful."

"Indeed." Belarion nonchalantly popped himself down and began raking through his small travel bag absently. After a few moments he proffered a large copper pot from it much to Ethriel's shock. It was quite large – much larger than the bag itself seemed to be. How on Azeroth? Belarion interrupted his confusion. "Can you get us some water from the stream back there for tea? I have some bloodthistle here."

He was instantly beaming. Bloodthistle! Thank the light – his own supply had run out. Ethriel obeyed enthusiastically, but mentally sieved through common enchantments for something that might account for the bag's paradoxical size. At the back of his mind, something told him he should know, but he couldn't put his finger on it. He soon found the stream, and kneeled down by its bank. In the cool rushing water he cupped his hands and splashed his face, making sure to clean off some of the detritus from his ill-fated adventures. A surprising amount of dried blood and dirt washed away. In the fading light, he looked down at his palm and the white blemish there once the caked mud was removed. In vain he scrubbed at it with his fingers, hoping it would wash off to no avail. It felt warm and sensitive, like a burn, but the mixture of cool air and icy water were soothing.

He'd almost forgotten it during the afternoon. Upon closer inspection, it looked like a circle, but the edges were more ragged. In a way, it was like a many-sided, uneven star. A few seconds told him trying to count the spokes was futile – there were too many. They seemed as fine as the grain of his skin itself. It almost looked like the sun, or an artistic interpretation of it. Beautiful or not, it was a mar to perfection and made him feel uneasy. Shaking dry, he reached into his cloak and took out some gloves to cover it. He'd rather not think about that just now.

When he got back to the campsite, he realised how long he'd been down at the stream lost in thought. In the centre of the little sheltered area, Belarion had dug out a small pit for a fire, though his immaculately clean hands did not betray how, and through whatever strange sorcery that bag held, a variety of thick blankets to protect against the increasing chill. Ethriel felt grateful for them as the first breaths of night made him shiver.

He put the kettle down next to Belarion, who was fussing over a set of strange-patterned marble spheres. There were five of them in varying sizes. He popped down upon what felt like the softest fabric that he'd ever known and eyed them suspiciously. "What are those?"

There was no answer, but he carefully arranged them in the shallow depression he'd made for the fire. "What are you do-" He was cut off as the priest snapped his fingers and the stones burst into a pure white, smokeless flame. "Wow..."

"Wow indeed."

"Is that... transmutation magic? Fire magic?"

Belarion looked at him wearily. "You really aren't too bright are you?" Ethriel puffed himself up, ready for another indignant speech, before he was defused with a smirk. "They're sunstones."

The name struck a chord, but he couldn't quite place it. He glared at the stones, as if willing the memory to materialise.

"They are enchanted by a mage both skilled in fire and earth magics to create portable and clean fire for any occasion. They will even burn in a storm."

As if to prove his point, thunder struck somewhere in the distance with a flash. Underneath the outcropping as they were, they were spared from the rain that began to pound. Ethriel shuffled further underneath their natural shelter into the narrow protection from the elements. "Well that's quite convenient. Where did you get them?"

"My mother bought them for me on last Summer Solstice." he replied uneasily.

"Well they're very convenient." Ethriel offered. He gazed at the mesmerising flames and the patterns they made as Belarion boiled the kettle and crumbled some bloodthistle into the water. In the steam the bitter tang of the herb filled the air. It was warming and electrifying at the same time – he couldn't wait. Suddenly all the troubles in the world melted away, and he desired nothing more than to drink it. "My own supply ran out."

"I know." The dark-haired elf smirked. "You've been in the worst mood all day. Someone has a bit of a habit."

Ethriel bit his tongue hard out of spite. He was correct of course – he'd developed quite the taste for it. In a tea, in a pipe or even chewed despite the disgusting taste, Bloodthistle was his island of calm in the storm of life. Every elf struggled with addiction; they lived in the constant urge to use and devour magic, chasing that euphoric moment where everything else fell away to the ecstasy of power. The herb was like that, but weaker, and definitely helped him to forget what he had... well forgotten? When he panicked, it was there and helped. When he was down it was there and it helped. When he was tired, it was there and it helped. The only thing he didn't enjoy was the stress of when it ran dry. It took special effort to act as if the comment was baseless, though he didn't manage to tear his eyes from the boiling water.

"It will be a cold night." Belarion observed hesitantly as he passed a cup of tea. "The tea will help, but we have not enough blankets for two to stay warm... nor the space."

He ignored the problem as sipped generously from the steaming liquid. Eyes drooped as the warmth spread through his body. Glorious. It was a tingling across his skin and a blossoming heaviness in his chest. He blearily eyed the sheets of rain falling at the edge of their little shelter. It didn't matter really. "Oh well..."

There was something important in that, he knew it. A poster in the dilapidated Silvermoon Bazaar read "man and man don't increase the population" or something equally inane as that. Yes, it was the new taboo that had everyone flustered – to stay warm they were going to have to huddle up out here. If anyone knew he'd get criticised for that too. In decades past it was something the elves wouldn't have thought twice about – but now? Now anything that didn't directly promote population growth was taboo. Any other time he would probably have made an issue of it, but right now he didn't particularly care. Instead, he basked in the glow of the flames and the bloodthistle.

Belarion gave him a concerned look, but shook his head and shuffled up closer. They were both sitting with their backs against the stone, using up most of the space in this tiny refuge. "It would be improper for us to lie together." He asserted.

"Yes, yes..." Ethriel agreed dreamily. It wasn't like that, besides, he just wanted to sleep, and his eyes were already heavy. He picked up the blankets and covered them both with the fabric. It felt silken against his skin. Carelessly, he tossed the cup to the ground and leaned his head on Belarion's shoulder, curling himself up comfortably. This was all lovely, and warm and amazing. Why had he been so upset about it earlier anyway?

"Good night, Belarion."

But he was already fast asleep against the rock too, the cup of bloodthistle tea spilling from his hand. A part of him wanted to rescue it and drink it too, but half way into the innocuous reaching he passed out as well.


	3. First Light 03

_A/N: I know it's quite slow going, but generally at the moment I'm just trying to get a feel for writing in bulk again. I've been a few years out of practice. If you like, please feel free to mash those buttons and type something if you like._

* * *

He knew this place, but nothing seemed right. The room, its layout and its decoration were oddly familiar but he couldn't put his finger on why. Was he back at the Academy? A quick inspection told him It was in the old Quel'dorei style, with tall ceilings and carved wooden pillars - or were they trees? Yes they were trees serving as the corners of the building. This was a house in the woods. How quaint.

He wandered around the room inquisitively looking at the various items. That clock over there looked familiar, and he'd seen that armchair before. He could almost remember someone sitting there fiddling with her hands. No, whittling wood. She had had droopy ears. The thought made him giggle. It suddenly struck him that there was no colour - everything was various shades of grey. Surely in a forest dwelling there would be various splashes of colour everywhere? Blue accents over doorways Or was it maybe night? They were long estranged to their Kal'dorei cousins, but perfect night vision was one thing they had luckily retained. A misstep knocked over an elegantly carved chair, but it made no sound as it hit the floor. While he had no direct reference, he was certain that it should have, and that a house in the woods would be subject to at least the droning of insects. Curiouser and curiouser.

"Ethriel?!"

He snapped his head round at the voice. That was familiar too, and he instinctively knew it was coming from upstairs. His intense curiosity quickly soured into a sensation of pure dread. Yes, he did know this place, and he knew this scene. He knew them far too well. Everything in his body told him not to, but his legs disobeyed him and carried him to the corner and up the stairs. They were steep and carved into the trunk of a huge tree, and in what would have been upper branches, the haunting cry continued.

"Ethriel! Come on!"

He didn't respond, but climbed. His feet felt like lead as he took each step. The air was acrid up here, like smoke. No, it actually was smoke. Nearby, desperate footsteps pounded across the wooden floorboards above. In the distance, someone screamed.

"Ethriel! For all that is holy wake up! _Suscito!_ " Holy magic rushed at him like a wave of cool water and wrenched him from the claws of sleep into the word. It was not a gentle awakening He shot up in a veritable mess of tangled blankets, panicking and writhing under their restrictive weight. The folds felt like ethereal limbs clawing at him. Rationally, he knew that they were inanimate, but pure animal terror had control of him. When he forced a gasp, it felt like the first breath he'd ever taken; but it still smelled like smoke.

Across from him on hands and knees, braced like a pouncing felid, Belarion was completely alert. "It took you long enough.I had to command it with magic for light's sake! Get up!" It wasn't in words of power, but the imperious command stood just as strongly.

Before Ethriel had time to do much more, the blankets and their cherished warmth were being confiscated and stuffed into the little enchanted bag. He instantly regretted having given them up as a gust of icy air chilled his bones. Wrapping his cloak tightly around him seemed to lessen it only minutely. "What's going on? It's not even dawn!"

Belarion tersely indulged him only a nod towards the coast and busied himself packing up the sunstones. One glance in the indicated direction told him everything he needed to know. Out where Sunsail Anchorage should have been in the distance, vicious flames and smoke lapped at the sky and obscured the stars. He moved with pure adrenaline securing his robes and the few small possessions he had still with him. When he stood up fully, a wave of nausea overtook him and brought him to his knees. He started retching.

Belarion quickly dropped the bag and grabbed him by the shoulders, gazing intensely at his contorted face. "Are you alright?"

He couldn't say it, it was too horrible. Ethriel was dizzy, with memories and images and smells thrashing across his focus. Somehow the compassionate words didn't reach his reasoning. It was the scourge. They had come again to kill the rest of them and turn them into the mindless undead. They would be here in minutes, with their endless shambling armies and disease. One touch would be all it might take to kill him. Homes and elves would burn in their wake. They would all serve the Lich king. Quel'thalas would fall. He managed to babble only one word. "Scourge!"

Belarion's features softened greatly, and his grip laxed. "It's just a fire – it's not the scourge. Calm now."

"NO!" He pushed harder than he thought was possible against the priest's grip, and he went tumbling away into the dirt. His voice was no longer his own – it shook with a child's fear. Desperate tears stung his cheeks and eyes rolled with terror. "They're going to get me! They're coming! They're coming! Shindu fallah nah!"

Ethriel didn't know what would happen next, but he knew what he had to do. He had to run and he had to get as far away from here as possible, from the scourge as possible. They were going to infect him, steal the life from his body and enslave him. A fresh wave of panic overcame his body and he knew he had to do whatever it took. With a swiftness that shocked them both, he jumped to his feet, ignoring the vertigo and started running. A grabbing hand towards his ankle was kicked off nimbly as he tried to make his escape. They wouldn't get him: not here, not now, not ever.

* * *

"Shindu fallah nah!"

Something about the phrase completely disarmed Belarion. Thalassian was a very flowery and descriptive language: you could say one thing in about a dozen different ways. Nobody in their right mind would ever speak those exact words in Quel'thalas again. Well, unless they were singing The Lament. He himself had sat that night, at the top of his estate's tallest tower, and watched the armies cut a great scar across the landscape and through the city. He'd watched the rangers be torn apart, screaming those words. Nobody alive in their land today could say that in their right mind, let alone someone who had brushed so close to it as Ethriel. It was simply burned into their memories with too much pain. This inexperienced little student might have forgotten much, but that he would not have. It was too real. Far too real.

It was obvious in that case: he was not in his right mind. Belarion's own emotions threatened to rise like a tide, but he forced them back down by sheer will alone. It was a skill: a priestly skill to be precise. One that he would have to teach Ethriel at the next available opportunity, but this flailing vessel of terror was not going to be very open to that right now. His fingers quested out in a steadying grip, but in a flash of movement Belarion found himself thrown to the ground, and his eyed widened in horror as his ward sped off into the forest.

Belarion flailed for a suitable spell to use. Snares and slows were not the province of holy magic, and the offensive spells held nothing back. He heard Kaelwyn's droning in his ears: tenacity, respect and compassion. No spell with full intent of the three would be gentle, and truly that conflict within him was a bane. As he mentally grasped for the light, it was as if a great stone wall stood between himself and the power he needed. It was ridiculous: he had never had this sort of issue before and wasn't going to have them now.

Ridiculous, he chided himself. Ethriel was reaching the edge of the clearing, and would soon be irretrievably far. If he was going to act, he was going to have to act now. To Hell with compassion. He could do without it right now – all he needed was power. Besides, pure compassion would get in the way of what he would have to do here, hurting an ally. Yes, tenacity, respect and power.

Again he reached for the magic, but instead of flowing with the current of light he blocked its passage. No matter what it wanted, he would bend it to his will by sheer force. Belarion hardly expected it to work, but instead of the gentle warmth he was used to a vaccuum opened up around. There was power here – oh yes there was power. The energy of it flooded his body like an icy rush, intoxicating and harsh. With this, he could do what he wanted. No restrictions. Instead of standard words of power, new ideas popped into his mind delightedly with abundance.

 _"Excorio animum!"_ He took a sort of delight in the effect he wrought. A volley of shadowy magic exploded from his outstretched hand and flayed at Ethriel's mind. It wasn't particularly painful, sadly, though he could do that if he wanted. All he needed was the word. A sick grin broke out across his face as he watched his target fall. The beam of magic was ripping thoughts away and discombobulating others. He couldn't run: he didn't remember how to run anymore. Belarion felt an urge to kill purer than any other emotion he had felt in his entire life, but fought it violently. He could do the next part too. _"Imperito animum!"_

It was unlike anything he had ever done with the light. There were no restrictions imposed on him here. He invaded the weakling's mind with the force of a mana-bomb. Somewhere, something fought him, but he crushed its will like an insect under a boot. That is all he was to him. He laughed maniacally, and noticed it came from not his own mouth, but from Ethriel's. Power was control, he saw it now.

 _Come._

It was euphoric to have that power over someone. At the edge of the forest, Ethriel's body obeyed with every fiber of his being and smoothly stood up.

 _Come._

Steadily he walked back over to him. Part of his mind suddenly threatened his control of the magic – this was wrong. To violate someone like this was unholy and evil. No, it was nobody's right to do that. In a last moment surge of compassion he imprinted one last command in that weak little brain.

 _Be calm._

The entire body once again agreed unconditionally without conscious knowledge. There – it was done. With huge effort he slowly extricated himself from Ethriel's mind, until he felt his own senses alone again. Exhaustion threatened to make him collapse, but he steadied himself as he looked up and saw a vicious glare coming down from Ethriel's face.

Belarion looked up at him gingerly. His eyes felt heavy, and he struggled to keep them open. They probably had dark circles underneath. "Please calm down. I'm sorry," he offered.

"I am calm – I have no choice in that. Sorry doesn't begin to cut it." He winced at the even tone; it was certainly calm, but full of a cold rage. "Explain yourself."

He knew how suspicious it looked - myths of that sort of magic were extremely common. Belarion just never believed he could do it himself. Urban legends told of the beings of shadow who could control your mind, cause entire villages to commit suicide. Evil spirits made of black flame who could kill you with just a word. They were just stories though, weren't they? He wasn't like that. "Did you just do that?" Ethriel spat through gritted teeth.

The pain of regret was almost physical as he brushed off his robes. "Yes. I'm sorry, but you were going to get yourself hurt."

Behind those angry green eyes, fury glinted, threatening, but unable to surface. Had his spell been that powerful? Each time it threatened to rear it's head he could feel his own voice booming inside the student's skull. Be calm. While he believed it was for the best at the time, insecurity shook him to the core. Even under these circumstances, he could quite believe that such darkness was evil and forbidden. "How dare you use such blasphemous arts upon me! What kind of unholy creature are you?!" Ethriel demanded.

* * *

Hurt glanced across Belarion's face and he turned away in shame. Too right that he should feel ashamed! In a way, Ethriel knew it was necessary, but he had a strong suspicion of any kind of dark art, which mind control clearly was. It didn't matter that he didn't know it existed before – on principle it was clearly against the light. Ethriel made a mental note not to let his guard down like before again - when he was enjoying that blood thistle last night this rogue could have done anything. Was he even a priest as he had claimed? Highly unlikely. He searched his mind for an additional indignant, scathing comment when he noticed that Belarion had already set off down towards the burning port.

His mistrust faded in comparison to being left alone. Not tonight, when there was trouble clearly afoot. "Hey! Come back! Where are you going?"

He didn't turn or slow, but replied stoically with more than a hint of irritation. "I am going to render assistance if needed. I am after all a priest of the holy light, regardless of your opinion."

It hurt more than it should. Ethriel stumbled unsteadily down after him, ignoring the urge to head in the opposite direction, for whatever else he felt, he was undeniably calm. The words were branded into his conscious and subconscious alike. Would that be forever? Admittedly it would be advantageous to never feel fear again, but the idea that someone could overpower him that easily forever sent shudders down his spine. "But what if it's dangerous?"

"Then I shall be extremely careful. Unlike you I can adequately defend myself." It was sharp and cutting, mostly because it was true. It occurred to him that there was little option - he'd already proven that he was a danger to himself. What would Kaelwyn think if he had ignored the assistance he'd sent? That would be definite dismissal, even from the kind-hearted master. He had no room to offend anyone more at the current time.

"Okay. I'm sorry. I'll come."

Belarion's shoulders relaxed slightly but he didn't slow his progress on the trail. It took them a few hours until the terrain levelled out and they reached the banks of the Sunsail river. By then the smoke made their eyes water, and individual shrieks and cries could be heard. At the back of Ethriel's skull, flashbacks threatened to overtake his senses, but each time he feared they would surface, he heard the echoes of that voice in his head. Be calm. It was a statement. It was a command. Somehow he breathed obedience to it. Part of him was grateful to be spared the graceless reaction, but another felt cheated. You didn't get over something that easily.

A few paces ahead, Belarion was sneaking through the low branches with surprising agility and stealth, peering over the gully towards where Sunsail was aflame. At this angle, Ethriel could see the shadows and flashes illuminating the angles of the priest's face. Not his eyes though, which was weird. They seemed to drink in the light - their colour coming from lack. With his new knowledge of those dark arts it seemed more ominous.

"What's going on?" Ethriel fought hard to keep the tremble from his voice. Belarion lightly stepped from his perch back to the obscuring safety of the shadows. Far to the east, the first rays of sun were creeping over the hills - they would not be hidden for long.

"I can't be sure, but The Wretched appear to have overrun the town."

Concern was evident on his face. The Wretched were but one step away from the scourge in abhorrence. Rogue elements of their people overcome by their magic addiction, behaving little better than animals. They ravaged the weaker Sin'dorei settlements regularly, leaving death and destruction in their wake. Everyone knew their modus operandi. First: any and all enchanted items, especially mana boxes. Second: elven brethren themselves. So great was their hunger that they would remorselessly suck the magic and life out of you until you were but a husk. Any blood elf could do it, but only they would. It disgusted Ethriel to the core.

Once again panic threatened to rise up, but the command boomed in his ears. Be calm. It was like a huge weight on his shoulders, holding down the emotions. He tried to shake off the irritation from its constant instrusion. From the wideness of his eyes, Belarion did not enjoy such an advantage. The anticipation seemed to age him by decades, with worry lines on his forehead and creases by his pursed mouth. He felt a sudden surge of empathy for what the priest was feeling and a slight burning of his hand. Swiftly he began rubbing the scar upon his robes, as if to wipe the offending sensation away.

The moment of serenity was broken, and they heard the rustling of footsteps nearby. Heads snapped towards it. Belarion was first to react, invoking the light. They both felt the rush of energy fill him at the command, ready for direction. The beginnings of words of power were on his tongue when a woman came sprawling through the bushes and collapsed beside them. It took one look to see she was not wretched, though she hardly looked well.

For a terrifying moment, Ethriel thought her dead, until he caught the ragged sound of her uneven breaths. She was clad in the green leather of a ranger, but they were torn, charred and soiled. In some places, the golden skin was burned and shiny. The smell of it turned his stomach and he turned to retch. Her golden hair was matted with blood and leaves in many places. They were instantly at her side looking over the various wounds. "What is your name?"

"Ashya." She muttered quietly before losing consciousness. In that moment, their differences were forgotten with shared purpose – they were both ultimately priests and healers. Determinedly, they summoned a vast pool of magic together and set to work on her injuries.


End file.
